


Fractures

by Calenheniel



Series: Forgiveness and Bitterness [2]
Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Angst, Disney, F/M, Hansla, Iceburns, Prison, Romance, Tragedy, helsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:50:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calenheniel/pseuds/Calenheniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Hans x Elsa; 5 years post-film; twoshot.] "No one was getting anywhere with her.” She thought, five years later, that she could forget those words; but time doesn’t heal all wounds, and love doesn’t thaw every frozen heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to do this after how much I enjoyed writing Strangers, which you might consider the "companion piece" to this two-parter. Be warned, though: this one is much darker, much more tragic, longer in length, and … well … a tad more, let's say, "explicit" than its older sibling. (It also takes a lot longer to get going, but I hope you stick around through the exposition to reach the gooey, smutty caramel deep inside.) Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Acknowledgements: Special thanks to my best friend, who again wrote the beautiful poem below for me as the intro to this story based only on the fever-dream outline of it which I concocted over the course of five minutes during a Skype conversation with her, and to her and another friend (jii-ro on Tumblr) for beta reading this insanity. I couldn't do it without you guys.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_The air will have to settle between us_

_I long to breathe what clean, untouched, unmingled_

_Unclouded air is left in this unchaste_

_Uncertain bed of yours. No longer try_

_To ravish me. No longer enthral me._

_Yours eyes must close. I cannot see that_

_Each pupil widens every time I speak._

_My body runs so hot and blushes red._

_So inflicted it is by fever caused_

_From your soft mosquito touch. So_ stop!

_Let ice from my rejections cool my veins._

_Let resting heartbeats take over my love._

_So fiery love decomposes flesh and bone_

_From embraces born in septic passion._

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

She's looking at the man standing in front of her, and she's certain she seems attentive, and modest, and appealing all at once—even though she's not really there.

 _This one's nice, Elsa_ — _at least give him a_ chance _._

She smiles, thinking he said something witty, probably, since he's laughing nervously—not that she actually knows, though, since she hasn't been listening at all.

 _How many suitors have you had this year? Seven?_ Eight? _Well, maybe this one's lucky number nine._

She holds back a grey chuckle, and that's best, really, since he now looks serious again, and he's leaning on her father's old desk with one hand and gesturing about something with the other—but mostly, she only notices his first hand, because it's  _leaning on her father's desk_ , and she almost frowns.

 _Besides, he's got it_ made, _if you know what I mean. And being allied with Madris wouldn't hurt._

He hasn't noticed her staring at his hand, because he proceeds to lean his full weight on that same desk, and then touches her father's globe, and comments with a slightly surprised look that it's out of date, and  _would the queen like a new one?_

 _Sure, he's a little ..._ awkward, _but come on, Elsa_ — _I'm the queen, I mean,_ princess _of awkward, and he's not half as bad as_ me.

She smiles politely back (even though she wishes that he would  _just_   _get off the desk and stop touching things that aren't his)_  and tells him no, she doesn't, but thank you for the offer—and he reddens and finally distances himself from the desk.

 _And just look at that portrait they sent of him—he's cute, isn't he?_ Real _cute. Way better than a lot of the others._

She looks at him then, and she's finally seeing him, too; and as he nervously prattles on about something else, scratching his head, she scrutinizes his black hair, his olive skin, his brown eyes, his dark red suit.

 _I heard he really,_ really _likes you, too. A big, fat,_ **crush.**

"Queen Elsa?"

Her eyes snap up to meet his, and she realises, somewhat embarrassedly, that she forgot to appear interested, lost in her own thoughts.

"I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

So he starts talking again, but she doesn't care anymore—actually, she hasn't cared since the beginning—but she pretends, and nods, and smiles, if only for her sister's sake.

_There's no such thing as "lucky number nine," Anna._

* * *

She watches as the ship carrying the deflated Prince Diego of Madris leaves the fjord from her bedroom window, and now that the show is over, her eyes are cold, impassive.

 _So what was wrong with this one, Elsa? Oh, wait—there was_ nothing _wrong with him. You were probably just being way too picky, as usual._

She traces the window pane with a bare finger, and ice trails it as it moves, creating beautiful fractal patterns along the glass. The sight is comforting to her in its familiarity, and she exhales a chilly breath, her gaze relaxing a little.  
 _  
Look, I—I didn't mean it that way. It's just ... well, you know what everyone's saying, don't you? I mean, you've rejected_ so many  _of them, now …_

She presses too hard against the glass in one spot, and it  _cracks_  under her touch.

 _You know it doesn't matter to_ me _if you are or not_ —I _could care less, actually_ — _but to_ them _... it just_ — _it looks_ odd,  _Elsa._

The ice is spreading, and her heart is  _thumping_  dully in her chest.

 _I just want to see you_ happy. _I haven't seen you that way in so long, now, and I—I'm just worried about you, that's all._

The  _thumping_  pauses, and she draws the cold back inside of her—but the crack is still there in the window, and the wind from outside is seeping through it.

And she closes her eyes, because she doesn't want to see it.

* * *

 _No one was getting anywhere with_ her.

She's standing in front of her father's portrait when the words— _the_   _self-fulfilling prophecy_ , she thinks with a grim smile—echo in her head again, just as they do on so many other nights, and days, and all the hours in between.

" _Did you see? The Prince is already leaving!"_

Her eyes move from the golden sceptre in his right hand to the orb in his left, and then to the gleaming crown atop his head.

" _What? So soon? But he only just arrived two days ago!"_

Then, her blue eyes meet his light green ones, staring straight ahead into the void, his expression unreadable.

" _Well, it seems she wasn't happy with_ him,  _either, for God only_ knows  _what reason."_

She wonders if that passive look is masking his  _fear,_  the way she had to hide hers on her coronation day; but when she looks over his figure, so tall and confident and regal, she guesses that she's just projecting.

" _I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without children—"_

Still, he must have had  _some_ fears, she reasons, as she gazes at his visage—but the longer she stares, her eyes boring holes into his painted ones, the more she starts to think those fears were all related to  _her._

" _But there's still the Princess Anna, remember; and she's looking well now, four months in, isn't she?"_

Her hands are gloved after the incident with the window earlier, but there's still ice crawling along the floor from where she's standing, and she pauses to catch her breath, because she  _can't_ let them find out that she can hear every word they're saying just outside the door.

" _Yes, but her husband is a_ commoner,  _Gustav, and, well … that won't look_ proper  _either, will it?"_

She manages to stop it right before it goes under the door—and she sighs in relief when it does, leaning on the table by the portrait as she shakes a little.

 _Stand up, Elsa. You need to look_ proper,  _after all._

With some effort, she collects herself again, and places a hand over her breast, hoping that its cold touch will slow her heartbeat.

" _Better a commoner than a_ virgin queen,  _I say."_

Some mutters of agreement follow this, and then she can't hear anything anymore as the conversation moves out of earshot down the hall—

—except for the soft  _tick, tick, tick_ of the small clock on the table.

* * *

"Your Majesty? What news from the Southern Isles?"

She's smoothing out the letter in front of her, surrounded by her advisers in the council room, and the daylight filtering through the large windows makes the text upon it impossible to read—but that doesn't matter, since she already memorised its contents  _hours_ ago.

 _Well, it seems she wasn't happy with_ him,  _either, for God only_ knows  _what reason_.

It's the same man, she realises, but her expression doesn't reveal that fact, her lips still pressed in a thin, prim line.

"King Magnus would like to reopen our trade lines."

Murmurs of surprise and consternation are uttered up and down the sides of the long table, advisers turning to one another, whispering across the way, glancing at her nervously.

Finally, one looks at her—Lady Mona—and the rest of their gazes follow.

"Perhaps … perhaps it is time, Queen Elsa. After all, it's been a while since the …  _unfortunate_  incident involving his youngest brother, and this isn't the first request from the King."

Her eyes widen slightly at the comment, but after considering it for a moment, silent and grave, they harden, glinting like steel under the sun.

"Perhaps. But I would like to make a request of  _him,_  in return, should we accept—if you all find it agreeable, that is."

The councillors nod perfunctorily at their queen, and she nearly snorts in derision.

 _They're all so_ proper  _now, aren't they?_

"I would request that the Southern Isles return the traitor, Prince Hans, into Arendelle's custody, and that he be given a trial under  _our_ laws."

Silence, deep and thick and  _heavy,_ fills the room, full of light.

"Your Majesty … is the traitor not already being subjected to adequate punishment? What benefit is it to our kingdom to bring him back  _here?"_

_I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without children—_

Her stare narrows, imperceptibly, remembering  _her_ voice from earlier, too.

"But therein lies the problem, Lady Cecilie: he is being  _punished,_ yes, but to my knowledge has not faced any sort of  _trial._  And I do believe I've earned the right, at  _least,_ to prosecute him  _properly_ here—and to  _ensure_ that his punishment is equivalent to the crimes he has committed."

The dubious and confused looks on their faces are enough to tell her that whatever consent she wins from her Council won't be by them  _agreeing_ with her, per say—just  _satisfying_ her demands—but that's good enough for her, since she doesn't  _really_ care what they think about it one way or the other.

"I can understand your feelings, Queen Elsa, but … how would we inform the public? Surely this might, well, be  _unpopular_ with them?"

 _Better a commoner than a_ virgin queen,  _I say._

She hides a morose smile, staring straight at the man who spoke with unfriendly eyes.

"On the contrary, Sir Gustav—I should think they'd be  _more_ than happy to see the traitor re-sentenced here."

 _And none happier than_ **me**.

She hears something akin to approving grumblings after this, but it doesn't please her; nothing will, she thinks, until she sees  _his_ face stuffed behind the iron door of the cell he once left her in, shackled and alone.

"Very well, Your Majesty. Now, concerning the  _specifics_ of reopening trade with the Isles, I think …"

Her hand relaxes against the surface of the table, and she closes her eyes briefly, her head  _buzzing_ —and she thinks of the clock in her father's study,  _tick, tick, ticking_ away.

A cloud passes over the sun, and when she opens her eyes again, the room is dark.

* * *

 _As heir, Elsa was_ preferable, _of_ _course._

She hears his voice mocking her even as she lays in bed, staring at the maroon canopy above her, and she wonders if, perhaps, Anna's outburst a few hours earlier wasn't warranted.

 _You did_ **what?**

She had been as patient as possible with her sister at the time, her voice calm and smooth, not wanting to upset her—but nothing had worked, and those big, impossibly angry blue eyes had chased her down the hallway back to her room.

 _Elsa, do you even_ remember  _what he did? To me? To_ you?

Her brow tenses at the memory— _your sister is dead because of_ **you** , a sword unsheathing, an ice sculpture in the shape of Anna—and her resolve wavers, slightly.

 _Hardly seems like a fair deal—they get our trade, and we get_ him  _in return? You've_ got _to be_ kidding  _me._

Her advisers, at least,  _had_ to be diplomatic about their queen's demands; Anna, on the other hand, was under no such obligation.

 _I think you've officially lost it, Elsa. There's just_ no other  _explanation._

She turns over on her side, staring at the door to her room, and she can see every detail of the floral pattern painted on it, even in the darkness of night.

 _You know what? I don't need this right now. I'm_ pregnant,  _for God's sake—I can't_ believe  _you would do this!_

She grimaces, closes her eyes, and breathes,  _slowly,_ because she can feel ice on the sheets clutched within her grasp.

 _I just don't_ understand _you._

She pulls her hands to her chest to contain the burst of snow that they're threatening to release, and she shudders.

 _No, I don't want to hear anymore, just—just leave me_ alone _for a while, okay?_

She can still see the outline of Anna's figure as she stalks off back to her own room, her shoulders hunched in ire, her hands balled into fists at her sides; and, just as she did then, she watches the scene replay in her mind in silence, not knowing what to say to make things right—or even if she  _can_ make things right—but this time, when she finally turns away, the guilt is gone from her features, and sombre determination sits in its place.

 _You don't_ have  _to understand._

And suddenly, a wave of resentment towards her sister washes over her—resentment of her expectations, of her shocked face, of her  _I think you've officially lost it, there's just_ no other  _explanation_ —and it doesn't matter  _what_ Anna or anyone else thinks or believes, because they  _don't know_ , and they'll  _never_ know, what it's like to be—

— _the_ preferable _one.  
_

* * *

"Has the traitor arrived?"

She doesn't look up from her work as she asks the question, even though her heart is  _thumping_ violently in her chest, and she feels sick.

There's a long pause before Kai speaks, and when he does … he sounds unexpectedly  _nervous._

"Yes, Your Majesty, but … well, he's not in the best shape, you see."

She remembers well the letter she had received from King Magnus a few weeks ago—how  _overjoyed_ he sounded at trade being reopened, how  _surprised_ he was at the Queen's request—and the description of the traitor's condition therein, which she had read aloud to her Council without shock, or foreboding, or even  _pleasure._

 _The traitor, formerly Prince Hans, has been held within a maximum security penal camp on Hetra Island for the past five years, and has, most assuredly, been doled the harsh punishment he so_ richly  _deserves—_

She puts down her quill, rises from her desk, and greets Kai's gaze.

"I will see him, and determine for myself what sort of medical attention—or whatever else—he might require."

 _—but, of course, if Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elsa, wishes to put him on trial, then we will do_ everything  _in our power to accommodate her wishes._

He stares back at her reluctantly, but he doesn't  _dare_ challenge that cold, hard flame in her eyes. Instead, he simply bows, and gestures to the door.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

She sweeps past him without another word spoken between them, and a thin line of frost trails after her on the wooden floor below.

 _We understand, after all, that Her Majesty's justice,_ whatever _it may be, is preferable to_ ours _._

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, and the frost spreads.

* * *

The first time she sees him again, she's not sure if he's still breathing … or if she's too late, and there's nothing but a husk of a man left in his place.

— _and has, most_ assuredly,  _been doled the harsh punishment he so_ richly  _deserves—_

He's thin, so  _thin,_ and she can barely recognise him through the beard that covers his face, and the dirtiness of his clothes and body.

— _we will do_ everything  _in our power to accommodate her wishes._

There's a smell, too, she notices—a smell of the unwashed, the hungry, mixed with the saltiness of the sea that carried him here.

— _Her Majesty's justice,_ whatever _it may be, is preferable to_ ours _._

Worst of all, though, is the  _dead_  look in his eyes—the green eyes, she thinks, that she remembers  _so well—_ and she can't bring herself to enter the cell, to look into  _those eyes,_ because if she does, she might forget why she brought him back in the first place, and that she's supposed to  _despise_ him.

She turns away from the door, but she knows she can't show them how  _disturbed_ she is then—how  _sickened_ —and she conceals it, and looks at her guards with as much purposefulness as she can muster.

"Call the doctor, and if possible, have him washed, shaved, and fed—I won't have him stand for trial looking like  _that."_

The guards are usually stone-faced, but she can see, even in  _their_ hardened expressions, something like perturbation—and that only makes her feel  _worse_.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Her lip trembles, but only for a second; after it's passed, she raises her chin, refusing to give in, and her jaw locks.

"I don't want to hear  _anything else_  about this until he's looking healthy again, and when he is—you're to come  _directly_  to me with any news. Is that understood?"

The guards exchange a look—and she's sure they're thinking  _it's going to be a_ while _until he looks "healthy" again—_ but they bow stiffly, and answer in unison.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

She nods curtly to them in return, and excuses herself, walking past them.

But once she's out of sight, she has to lean against the stone wall of the prison, because she's  _shaking_.

* * *

Over two months pass before she hears any news about the traitor—well,  _official_ news, that is.

 _Unofficially,_ of course, plenty has been said, and spat, and shouted about him in the meantime by the public, the courtiers, the councillors,  _Anna—_ and though, at first, it's all outrage and confusion, it quickly turns into something else, something  _unexpected_ —whispers of King Magnus's cruelty, of the Southern Isles's inhumanity, of  _pity_ for the former princeling.

 _And all because the guards couldn't keep their mouths_ shut _._

She should have expected as much, since they're  _people,_ and she knows how  _people like to_   _talk_ ; but she couldn't help being annoyed when she first caught wind of the fact that they had been gossiping in the city taverns and markets about the haggard conditions of their prisoner, the  _scars on his back,_ the hollowness of his gaze.

 _But it works in your favour, doesn't it,_ Elsa?

There's her sister's scathing voice again, her tone bitter, her hand placed protectively over her belly.

 _Now they all see you as some kind of …_ admirable  _person, because you "saved"_   _the_   _poor,_ tortured _Prince Hans._

She knows Anna's not completely without sympathy, herself—in fact, she's  _sure_ she saw a look of horror cross over the girl's freckled features when her handmaiden described his appearance to her, based on whatever hearsay she had gathered from the other castle servants—but she doesn't  _trust_ her older sister's intentions, and obviously never thought they were  _good._

 _It doesn't matter that he's not dangerous, or that he can't_ hurt  _us—he shouldn't_ be  _here in the_ first  _place._

Maybe Anna's right, she thinks, or maybe she's just being hormonal—but at least she's not  _ignoring_ her anymore like she was for the first week after his arrival, and she can accept her younger sister's anger, and brooding, and irritated  _stomping_ against the floor if it means she's not  **invisible** to her anymore.

 _Besides, how is he going to stand for trial when he can barely_ stand?

She's not sure how true this is, since she hasn't actually  _seen_ him in so many weeks; but it's not as if the people of Arendelle are clamouring for a trial now, knowing what they know, and neither is the Council, since there are far more  _pressing_ matters than that of sentencing the ex-prince, still safely hidden away under lock and key.

 _And now it doesn't even matter that we signed that agreement with the Southern Isles, does it? Because_ no one  _is buying_ their  _stuff._

She should probably care more than she does about this fact, especially since her advisers have been doing nothing but wringing their hands over the silent boycott of the Isles's goods by the public, too peace-loving and kind to buy anything made there once they realise what their money is  _actually_  being used for—but she remembers that letter from King Magnus, those  _awful_ words, and she can't bring herself to feel anything other than a strange sense of  _satisfaction_ from the fact that she has gotten the better end of the deal.

_Relatively speaking, of course._

In truth, she wonders if having him there as her prisoner can really be considered the "better end of the deal"—Anna  _certainly_ wouldn't agree with that characterisation, anyway—but then, she remembers how  _thrilled_ she felt when she was able to  _sadly decline_ several requests from potential suitors over the past few months on account of having to address a  _matter of national security_ , and she shrugs off her doubt easily enough.

 _I can have this_ one  _victory._

As time passes, however, it feels less like a  _victory_ and more like a  _temporary relief measure_ , since all the usual burdens of power are weighing down on her again: the settling of territorial disputes between rich courtiers and poor farmers alike, compensation battles, petitions to clean the streets of the autumn muck, arguments over tax collection …

 _You're the_ queen,  _after all._

And though she reminds herself of this often—of  _who_ she is, the Queen of Arendelle, the  _ruler_ of her little realm—she knows that's not  _what_ she is.

Because  **what** she is, in the end, is just—

_Preferable._

* * *

The day she hears the news— _officially—_ it's the middle of November, cold and raining and  _wet,_ and she's sitting by her window, staring at the crack she left in it over two months ago.

"Your Majesty?"

Her gaze flickers over to the door, and she gestures, gently, for Kai to enter; when she sees his pursed, discomfited lips, however, her brow furrows in concern.

"Is something wrong, Kai?"

He fidgets under her stare, and lowers his eyes out of respect.

"It's—well, it's the  _prisoner,_  Your Majesty. The guards—the guards say they must speak with you about him."

Her eyes widen in realisation, and then, remembering where she is—and  _who_  she is with—her placid façade returns, and she nods, rising from her seat.

"I see. Thank you, Kai."

It's obviously an invitation for him to leave, quietly; but he raises his eyes to hers, and looks hesitant at her assured manner, clasping his hands worriedly in front of him.

"Queen Elsa, are you—would you like me to accompany you, ma'am?"

She's annoyed by the query, at first; then, seeing the older man's kind, distressed eyes, and remembering how they have watched over her for practically her  _entire life,_ her gaze softens, and she reaches out, resting her gloved hands atop his.

"I'll be  _fine,_ Kai—I promise. But thank you, anyway."

He finally sighs, relenting, and then bows a little—but when his stare meets hers again, he looks just as unhappy as before.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

When he departs, she feels her stomach drop; and when the door closes, and she is alone, a familiar voice jeers at her.

 _Elsa—you can't_ run  _from this._

* * *

The second time she sees him, she can't believe that this could really be the same man—no,  _husk_ of a man, she reminds herself—whom she saw two months ago, sitting, shrivelled and lifeless, in the corner of his cell.

 _We did like you asked, Your Majesty—and it took a little while, but not as long as the doctor said it would—and you can see for yourself that's he's_ better  _now, can't you?_

Indeed, she thinks, staring through the small, barred window into the cell with large, blue eyes, he looks "better" by every stretch of the imagination: he's dressed acceptably well in black trousers, a white shirt, and a blue cloak over top, and his body has filled out again enough, she realises, so that he can actually  _fit_ in these clothes; his skin has returned to its normal pallor, unbeaten by the sun for some weeks, and the smell is gone, too; his face looks smoother, with only a  _hint_ of a few days' stubble (though, she notes with some irritation, he's managed to maintain those  _perfectly sculpted_ sideburns); and when he realises that someone is watching him, and casually turns around, she can see that his eyes—

 _His_ eyes.

They're alive again, resuscitated, she presumes, by the return to a  _normal_ diet and clean water … but they're also  _gleaming_ with a feeling that she recognises all too well.

 _The eyes of a_ caged animal.

He looks that way to her then— _beastly,_ somehow—and she has to keep herself from shivering, and from coating the whole prison in a layer of ice, because her hands, though gloved, are  _itching_ to dispel her uneasiness in the quickest way they know how.

"I will speak with him— _alone."_

The guard with the key set stares back at her, uncertainly; but it only takes one sharp, sudden glance from her for him to quickly comply, and he unlocks the heavy door.

When it shuts, and they're together in that cell,  _alone,_ her stomach stirs—but, unlike before, it's not a  _heavy_  feeling, full of dread—and it takes more effort than usual to ignore the sensation, but she finally breathes in, and stands taller, and keeps her gaze level with his.

"And here I was starting to think that you'd  _forgotten_  about me,  _Your Majesty."_

Her lip curls a little at the remark, and he grins at that tiny movement.

"But I can't blame you for waiting so long to  _grace_ me with your presence—I wasn't anything  _pretty_ to look at before, was I?"

She bristles at the description, her shoulders tensing.

"That had  _nothing_ to do with it."

His brow rises curiously; then, he nods in false understanding, smirking.

"Oh, right, of  _course—_ how could I forget? There was no point in coming before I was  _fit to stand trial,_ correct?"

Her teeth grit together, and her eyes narrow at him.

" _Correct."_

He stares back with faux curiosity.

"So, when's my  _trial,_  then, Your Majesty?"

She's scowling, now, and she can't  _stand_ that smug,  _knowing_ look on his freckled face—nor can she stand the fact that she is noticing his  _freckles_ at all.

"Two weeks from now."

His expression drops at that answer, because it sounds hard and certain; he doesn't need to know, she thinks darkly, that she's just pulled it out of  _nowhere._

But after a short pause, that  _infuriating_ expression returns to his features, and he looks bored.

"And here I thought it might be  _sooner,_ seeing how much  _better_ I am under your  _attentive_ care, Queen Elsa."

Her heart races when she hears him say her name again, for the first time in  _five years—_ but she assumes it's racing out of irritation, because he  _should_ be addressing her only as "Your Majesty," as anything else is  _far_ too presumptuous on his part.

"Well, you thought  _wrong."_

His eyes—those green,  _predatory_ eyes—study her curiously then, and she wants to shrink under his scrutiny, but she can't.

"Oh—I see."

The reply is too simple—too simple for  _him,_ anyway—and she frowns, her arms crossing unconsciously.

"What?"

He goes to sit back on the stone plank, and he's sitting  _much_ too comfortably on it, resting his head against his hands, stretched out behind his back—but then his gaze sharply snaps up to hers again, and it startles her with its intensity.

"You didn't come before, because … you were waiting until I looked like the  _bogeyman_  in your nightmares again, weren't you?"

Her mouth goes dry at the question, and her lips part, ostensibly to answer, but—

"You were afraid, if you came before then, that you'd  _forget_  why you hated me—that you might even start to feel  _sorry_ for me. Isn't that right,  _Your Majesty?"_

Her eyes are wide, and still, and full of  _confusion—_ and he stares back at them with a sneer on his lips, his words  _dripping_ with derision.

"Don't worry—I'm still  _grateful_ for your  _hospitality,_ my Queen. It certainly beats the  _camp,_  anyway."

That's his final  _comment,_ it seems, and it's also the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back, because she's  _furious_ now, and she can feel the ice coursing,  _rippling_ through her veins.

And she smiles smugly when he yelps in surprise at finding his hands—once casually resting behind his head—now frozen in shackles of ice to the wall behind him.

He struggles against the restraints, for a minute; then, seeing her menacingly  _pleased_  expression, he stops, and glares at her haughtily.

"I guess I'll just have to wait for these to  _thaw,_ then."

Her smile disappears for a moment, and a smirk begins to form at the corners of his mouth.

But then, it's back on her pink lips, and it's wider—and  _colder_ —than ever.

"Don't you remember, Hans?  **My**  ice doesn't  _thaw_ so easily."

* * *

 _He refuses to eat or drink, Your Majesty, until_ you  _come to see him._

She's practically  _storming_ through the hallways en route to the prison, her mouth set in a hard, irritated line, and she ignores the burst of flurries that follows her every step—as well as the looks of surprise on the tired faces of the attendants she passes swiftly by, not expecting to see their queen wandering the castle so late at night.

 _You were waiting until I looked like the_ bogeyman _in your nightmares again, weren't you?_

She'd been hoping, until then, that she could get through the rest of the day without having to see him again, or hear his  _venomous_  tongue; but it's a futile hope, because she's been  _seeing_ him and  _hearing_ him all day anyway—at the council meeting, at tea with Gerda, and at dinner with an  _exceptionally_  moody, petulant Anna—and even though the messenger had knocked on her door at such an  _unseemly_  hour, she had been wide awake.

 _You were afraid, if you came before then, that you'd_ forget _why you hated me._

She's been replaying it all in her mind, just as she has for the past  _five years_ with the other things he's said—but this time, they're somehow  _worse,_ because they're all things he actually said  _to_ her, not just disembodied words spoken  _about_ her to her sister in dark rooms with cold hearths.

…  _you might even start to feel_ sorry _for me. Isn't that right,_ Your Majesty?

Just remembering the way he had used that term so  _sarcastically_ sets her teeth on edge, and by the time she finally sweeps through the entrance and down the stairs of the prison, she realises that she's been  _grinding_ them.

"Your Majesty—"

She's in front of  _his_ door now, but she doesn't bother meeting the guardsman's gaze.

"Let me in, please."

He only pauses for a second this time before obeying, and when it's open just enough for her to enter, and she steps inside, blue eyes locked with green, the snow disappears, and so does the ice under her feet.

"Oh—did I wake you, Your Majesty?"

She realises, flustered, that he's  _looking her over_ —observing her dishevelled white hair, still loosely collected in a long braid down her back, her dark purple robe and the white nightgown peeking out from underneath it, the matching purple slippers on her feet—and she crosses her arms automatically, glowering more darkly than ever at him.

" _No,_ but that's beside the point. What do you want,  _Hans?"_

His brow rises at the question, and then he's staring at her expectantly.

"Well, to get  _these_ off, for a start."

His eyes flicker behind him, where his hands remain uncomfortably strained behind his head, encased in solid ice—but her expression only  _hardens_  at the request, and her arms remain stiffly folded across her chest.

"Not until you say you're  _sorry_ for what you did."

He's surprised by the reply, at first; then, he seems  _amused_ by it.

"And what if I don't?"

Her lips turn down in a scowl.

"So you're  _not_ sorry, then?"

He frowns at the suggestion.

"I never said  _that."_

Her voice is thin, and she's practically  _hissing_ at him.

"Then  _what,_ exactly, is the issue?"

He shrugs, nonchalant.

"I don't like being  _forced_ to confess to things that I would otherwise say  _willingly,_ Your Majesty. And besides—shouldn't I save it for my  _trial?"_

She scoffs scornfully at his answer.

"I want to hear you say it  _now_ —and I won't thaw a single  _shard_ of that ice until you do."

His eyes look disbelievingly back at her, his brow raised again in  _insufferable_ scepticism, but there's a touch of a grin on his lips in his retort.

"Then I guess you'll never hear the words you're so  _desperately_ longing for, and I'll hang here until I die of thirst—and that wouldn't benefit  _either_ of us, now would it?"

Her nose wrinkles at the  _jesting_ tone of his voice, resenting it more and more with each passing minute.

"It would benefit  _me_ more than  _you."_

His eyes narrow—those light,  _emerald_ eyes—and she can  _feel_ the heat of his stare on her skin.

"If that were true, Queen Elsa, then why bring me back in the first place? I was as good as  _dead_  back on Hetra."

"I already told you, it's for you to stand  _tria—_ "

"And I don't  _believe_ you, Your Majesty."

Her lips snap shut, and she's silent, because she doesn't have a good response—or  _any_ response—to spit back at him.

That curious glint returns to his gaze as he regards her then, in her muted state, and she  _hates_ that her mouth isn't moving, or producing sounds, or  _words,_ to stop him from saying something she  _knows_ she'll be hearing inside of her head for days on end.

"Come on, Your Majesty—you must have had  _some_ reason other than to make me  _formally apologise,_ surely? I can't imagine that Anna was  _clamouring_ for me to come back, just for  _that—"_

"Don't you  _dare_ say her name. You don't have the  **right**."

She finds her voice again, to her own surprise—but it's only  _after_ he's started releasing his  _poison,_ and she feels her blood, unusually  _hot,_ pulsing,  _throbbing_ in her skull.

He rests his head back, looking away from her, and closes his eyes briefly.

"No, I suppose I don't."

She eases slightly then, arms gripping each other less tightly; but then, that  _grin_ is there again, and it's spreading with a  _feline_  grace.

"But what if I said  _Princess_ Anna, Your Grace? Would that be more to your  _likin—"_

" **Did you not hear me the** _ **first**_ **time?"**

She's standing directly in front of the stone plank he is confined to, her hands balled into furious fists at her sides, and her palms are  _scalding._

"I said—don't you  _ever,_ **ever** say her name."

She's expecting him to be silent at this—to know his place, and  _shut his mouth,_ and be  _humble,_ for once—but instead, he just looks at her with slightly widened eyes, and then he smiles furtively, and lowers his voice to a sweet,  _dulcet_ tone.

"Oh, Queen Elsa … you're  _blushing."_

The anger in her brow disappears, replaced with bemusement, and she doesn't comprehend the smirk she sees on his face.

"Don't tell me you're …  _jealous,_ are you?"

Her lips part, but she still doesn't understand what he's saying.

"What are you—don't be  _ridicu—"_

"I'm not  _totally_  unaware of the world outside this cell, Your Majesty."

He interrupts her sputtering, and the smirk is gone, but that knowing,  _teasing_ lilt is still there, taunting her.

"I hear the guards talk, sometimes: they say the Princess is pregnant, and married to a commoner—an  _ice harvester,_ no less."

She's  _grinding_ her teeth again, impatiently.

"What does that have to do with  _anything,_ Hans?"

He sighs at the question, giving her a slightly incredulous look.

"Isn't it obvious? She has everything you  _don't_ —a husband, a child on the way, and practically  _zero_ responsibilities, save for showing face at balls and public events—why, it's  _natural_ that you should feel jealous, in those circumstances."

Her heart slows in her chest, or at least she  _thinks_ it does, but she's not sure, since she can't hear anything anymore—let  _alone_ her own heartbeat.

 _I'm … jealous? Of_ Anna?

— _a husband, a child on the way, practically_ zero  _responsibilities—_

She sees Kristoff, and imagines the bright-eyed faces of her blonde and blue-eyed future nephews and nieces, but …  _jealousy?_

 _No—that can't be right. That's_ not  _right._

How can it be, she thinks, when she sees Anna playing with the children in the castle courtyard—her children, but also ones from the city—and there's a beautiful, happy smile on her face, and then she's dancing with them by the fountains, inside the castle, in the  _ballroom—_

—and there she is in her green coronation dress, her hair pinned up in a pretty bun with ribbons laced throughout, and she's saying  _you're beautifuller—_ _I_ _mean, not_ fuller _, y_ _ou don't look_ fuller, _but more_ beautiful _,_ and then she's gliding gracefully across the floor,and she's gone for a while, but she comes back, and she's arm in arm with  _him,_ and they're asking  _in unison_ that they  _would like your blessing of our marriage!_ and  _o_ _h, we can invite all_ twelve _of_ _your brothers to stay with us_ _,_ and—

"No."

He's taken aback when she speaks again.

"What?"

Her gaze is cloudy— _blurred_ —and her voice sounds far away.

"I said  _no_. That's not it."

He seems to catch on that she's finally replying to what he said earlier; but, noticing her distant expression, his auburn brow quirks enquiringly.

"Oh? Then what is i—"

But he never finishes, because suddenly, her hand is pressed against his mouth, muffling his words, and his lips are sealed in a film of ice _._

 _Don't tell me you're …_ jealous,  _are you?_

His light eyes are wide and bewildered and  _disdainful_ all at once as they regard her, one hand still gripping the ice around his mouth, and the other suddenly resting against his chest, on his  _heart,_ feeling him shiver beneath the cloak—from cold or from  _fear,_  she doesn't know—and as the  _thump, thump,_ **thump** of his heart courses through that hand, the other on his mouth relaxes.

…  _why, it's_ natural _that you should feel jealous, in those circumstances._

Then, the ice is gone, and his lips are cold and blue beneath it—but her fingers are lightly running over the outline of them, and they're quickly warming again under her touch.

 _Oh, Queen Elsa … you're_ blushing.

She snaps her hands away from him, and turns forcefully back to the door of the cell; then, she pauses, and glances at him one last time, a pink glow lighting her cheeks, and the icy shackles that bound his hands behind him disappear.

"I'll be waiting for that apology."

And then she's gone again, leaving him sitting there, on a stone slab, the moonlight  _burning_  his skin.

* * *

" **Elsa."**

She's staring at her plate at breakfast when Anna says her name, and from the way she says it, she guesses that it's not the first time.

"Sorry, I was just … thinking."

Her sister frowns a little at the reply.

"I don't like it when you go  _quiet_  like that, Elsa—especially since this is the  _one_ time of day when we actually get to catch up, you know?"

Their stares lock, for a moment, and she can see the resentment behind Anna's eyes—the lingering,  _hurtful_ disappointment that's been there for the past two months, and throughout their  _entire lives—_ and when she can't bear to see it anymore, she pinks and turns away, embarrassed.

"I know, and—I'm sorry, Anna. I didn't mean to, really."

Anna relents at this, sighing, and roughly cuts through her hardboiled egg with a fork.

"It's fine, Elsa. I just—well, ever since  _he_ came back, you … you've been acting strange. Well,  _stranger_ than usual."

She wants to take offence at the remark, but she knows there's some truth to it—and so the most she can muster is a slightly straighter back, and a defensive tone.

" _Nothing's_ changed, Anna; and besides, I haven't even  _seen_ him since he arrived, since he's still so sick."

_She doesn't need to know._

She sips her tea, and Anna's forehead wrinkles disbelievingly.

"That doesn't mean you're not  _thinking_ about him, though. I know  _I_ have been, anyway."

It's hard to swallow the drink after that pointed comment, and even though she eventually does, it tastes far bitterer than usual going down her throat.

 _She_ can't  _know._

She's suddenly transported to the cold confines of that cell, where the moonlight streams through the tall window and highlights the redness of his hair, the freckles on his cheeks, the  _danger_ in his eyes—and his lips are under her bare fingers again, and she can see them changing from icy blue to a fleshy pink, and she can  _feel_ his slow, shuddering breaths tickling her  _unbearably_ hot skin.

 _I said_ no.  _That's_ not  _it, Hans._

"Elsa? Are you …"

 _Oh? Then what is it,_ Your Majest—

"…  **blushing**?"

* * *

Something draws her back to him that night—the memory, perhaps, of beating hearts, of soft lips.

 _You've been acting strange. Well,_ stranger  _than usual._

The guards let her in soundlessly, and her feet are just as silent as they glide into his cell, stepping into moonlight.

 _That doesn't mean you're not_ thinking  _about him, though._

He's standing by that tall window looking out on the fjord, and she knows that  _he_ knows she's there from the way his shoulder shifts, ever-so-slightly, beneath the heavy cloak.

"I'm surprised you're here, since I  _behaved_ today, Your Majesty."

It's a glib remark, but that's not reflected in his voice, which carries an odd  _tension_ in it that it didn't have the day before—and she can guess why.

"Yes—I heard the same from the guards."

He doesn't snort, or scoff like she expects him to; instead, he still seems  _stiff,_ and he's still looking out the window.

"So why are you here, then?"

Somehow, it's  _annoying_ that he should ask such a direct question without even facing her, and she frowns unconsciously, taking a few steps closer towards him.

" _Look_ at me, Hans."

It's an order, and even though she suspects that he might just ignore it—since he hasn't proven himself to be the most  _exemplary_ prisoner thus far—he complies, and his gaze is suddenly fixed on her with disconcerting intensity.

"I'm  **looking** , Your Majesty."

She purses her lips at the remark.

"Yes, I can  _see_ that."

His feral eyes stare thinly at her.

"So—now what?"

She's observes him with the same, calculating way look that  _he_ usually wears towards  _her_ ; and when he takes a few steps towards her, and they're only a foot apart, she feels herself release a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding.

 _Yes—now what,_ Hans?

Now that he's so close, and the light is shining on him, she can make out his features far better than before—the finely-sculpted,  _royal_ nose, the natural pinkness in his cheekbones, the fiery colour of his bangs—but she also notices  _other_  things that she hasn't seen … or, perhaps, that she didn't  _want_ to see until then.

First is the white scar by his right temple, near his hairline; second are the faint lines in his forehead, revealing, as they do in her own, the passage of time since their first meeting; third, a patch of burnt skin by his left ear, covered, like the other scar, by his  _auburn hai_ —

She's so caught up in staring, in fact, that when she suddenly feels her back shoved up against the stone wall of the prison, and his bare, callused hand pressing on her throat, she's too shocked to shriek for the guards—because her eyes are  _glued_ to his noxious grin, and her mouth is twisting as he chokes her.

 _But no one was getting anywhere with_ her.

It takes more effort for her to  _only_ target the hand that's around her neck than it would have to just knock him back completely to the hard ground below—and indeed, when he winces in pain and his grip on her relaxes, allowing her to breathe again, she wonders why on  _earth_ she didn't simply  **freeze**  the bastard's heart, and let the guards take care of him afterwards.

As she sucks in the dank air of the cell, glaring  _daggers_ at him, the hand that froze his is still tightly wrapped around his wrist, and she maintains a temperature there that is somewhere between uncomfortable and frostbite.

"You 'behaved' today, did you?"

He looks like he's in pain—and  _good,_ she thinks,  _since that's_ exactly  _how he_ should _look right now_ —but he somehow still manages the faintest of smiles at this, looking from his pale, cold wrist to her spiteful eyes.

"I might have spoken too soon,  _Your Majesty."_

She can't believe he has the  _gall,_ in this moment, to wear such an expression—and to make such a  _frivolous_ reply—when she  **literally** has his life in her hands, and she is baffled, too, at why he would even  _try_ to come near her in the first place, being "acquainted" with her unique set of powers as he is.

And though she's furious, and puzzled, and  _scared_ all at the same time, his hand is still hanging by her neck, above her collar, in her icy grip.

 _As heir, Elsa was_ preferable,  _of course._

She wants to ask him about it, then—about  _all_ of it—and that's an  _absurd_ desire, she chides herself, considering he just tried to  _kill_ her for the  **second** time in five years.

But the longer she stares back into those cruel,  _hollow_ green irises, the more that desire grows— _enflames._

_Why did you say those things about me?_

Her grip relaxes a little, and his skin starts to warm again.

How  _could you say those things about me?_

He's still standing so close to her, his head hovering just above hers, and her fingers are only loosely wrapped around his wrist now—in fact, they're slowly tracing their way across the back of his hand, his knuckles, and she's hardly aware of it, but his fingertips are beginning to press into the flesh of her neck again.

 _You didn't even_ know  _me, then._

It feels different than before, though, because his thumb is roughly  _caressing_ the dip between her throat and collar, and his eyes—those lovely,  _vicious_ emerald eyes—are darkened by something  _indefinable_.

 _And you don't know me_ now,  _either_.

There's a tremor running through her body, but she refuses to allow it to take hold of her—she can't let it, because if she does, then he'll  _know,_ and he'll  _use_ it against her.

 _I'm not who you think I am—who_ anyone  _thinks I am._

And so she grasps his face in her hands, pulls it towards her, and kisses him.

 _That_ perfect girl  _is gone._


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to mention at the top here that if you enjoyed my story, you should also check out yumi michiyo's Substitution. It's just as dark, probably even more angsty, and has been a constant source of inspiration for me on this fic. Read it at the following link: archiveofourown.org/works/1288891
> 
> Acknowledgements: Thanks again to jii-ro on Tumblr and another anon friend for beta reading this insanity. You've been an unbelievably big help to me. And check out some awesome fanart for this fic here: http://calenheniel.tumblr.com/frozen
> 
> And now, without further ado: the final part of Fractures.

She doesn't seem him again for a few days, after that—nearly a week—but, just like Anna said, it doesn't mean that she's not  _thinking_ about him.

Actually, she's been thinking about him far too  _much,_ whether it be in meetings, or at appointments with foreign officials, or while visiting with the public; and she's been thinking, in particular, of how  _good_ his lips felt against hers—how warm they had felt, how  _hungrily_ they had responded to her—at all the wrong times.

Seeing him again, she knows, will only confirm her fear that it had all actually  _happened_ —that it hadn't just been the  _fever dreams_  of a depraved mind—and so she can't bring herself to go back there, to that cell, to step into the pool of light by the window, to see  _his_ face.

Still, she couldn't help but continue to inquire after his health from the guards who watch over him, and when they tell her he often takes to attempting conversations with them, or talks to the stone walls of his cell out of boredom, she tells them to give him something  _useful_ to do, since, as Gerda always says,  _idle hands make for idle minds, Your Majesty._

And so he's set up, at first, with doing a few menial tasks inside of his cell during the daylight hours—scrubbing pans, peeling produce, making the silverware really  _shine_ —but she knows that won't hold him over for long, and that soon, he'll be asking  _so when's my trial, Your Majesty?_ again, and she'll have to find him something  _else_ to do to distract him from that question, since she hasn't even  _begun_ to find a proper answer for it.

 _And I don't know if I will anytime_ soon, _either._

In the meantime, she's managed to retain the façade of normalcy (with the help of a few well-placed scarves to cover the marks on her neck from his hand), few people suspecting her true state of mind, and even  _fewer_ inquiring about the traitor held in the prison. They are satisfied, it seems, that their queen is as composed and calm as ever when she needs to be, and they do not ask her for anything else—and, well, as for the traitor, some have already  _forgotten_ about him entirely, ensconced as they are in new, petty political battles to win her favour at court.

Anna, by contrast, knows that  _something_ is playing on her mind, and guesses (correctly) that it has to do with  _him;_ but even  _she_ has stopped grilling her sister constantly about the matter, if only because her belly is growing bigger by the day and most of her time is now occupied with thoughts of what she and Kristoff should name the baby, what colour to paint its future room, the merits of plush bears versus dolls, and other such difficult questions.

_Life goes on, I guess._

That's what Kai always says, anyway, and she's starting to think that maybe, just  _maybe_ it can be true for her, too—that maybe she can just  _get on with her life_  and not have to think about the way his hair felt, tangled in her fingers, or how his hand gripped her neck in that  _coarse_ way, or how he  _flinched_ as she cooled that same hand whenever it got  _too_ tight, or how his tongue darted along hers, or how he  _grinned_ at her when they finally pulled apart, and she was breathing,  _hard_.

 _So_ that's  _why you're here, huh?_

She had slapped a couple of ice shackles back onto his wrists for that little piece of insolence, chaining him to the wall just as he had done to  _her;_ and, if her magic is still working properly, she supposes that he has remained in those same chains for the past week, though she feels less guilty about this fact when she remembers that she made the cuffs' chains  _exceptionally_ long so that he had plenty of room to pace and do whatever else he so desired.

 _That's a better deal than the one_ I  _got._

She frowns bitterly at the memory, and at the thought of his falsely plaintive expression when he entered that cell and pleaded with her to  _bring back summer_ —only to have been planning, all along, to  _stage a little accident_ for her once he'd married her sister.

 _And_ that  _is the man you kissed._

She  _should_ despise herself, she thinks, for doing what she did— _Anna_ would, probably, if she knew—but the most she can muster is a slight feeling of irritation at the situation, and nothing further, or  _harsher,_ than that.

_Because I_ **wanted** _it.  
_

* * *

"Had a busy week at work,  _Your Majesty?"_

She's been observing the new furniture placed in the cell to facilitate his daily work—a wooden table and chair, plus some heavier blankets that he requested—with absent interest before he speaks to her from the stone bed, his chains jangling faintly in the background.

"No busier than usual."

She won't entertain his curiosity about what she does up in the castle above him, and her daily life, or anything related to it; and why should she, she thinks, when he asks the questions in such a  _smarmy_ manner?

"Still arranging my  _trial,_  I take it?"

Her nose twitches.

 _And I don't_ believe  _you, Your Majesty._

"Yes."

There's a dull silence between them after this, and then she glances at the table.

"How are you finding your work, then?"

He shrugs, bored, and the chains shake as he rests his chin in his palm, a fresh layer of auburn stubble growing along his jawline.

"Well, it's  _mind-numbing,_ of course, but … at least I'm not getting  _whipped_ if I don't peel a potato in just the right way."

There's a hint of dark humour in his tone when he says this, and she remembers, then, the  _marks_ she saw on his face—the one by his temple, the burnt skin near his ear—but she also remembers the whispered rumours of the guards as they passed from citizen to citizen in the kingdom.

 _They say he's got scars on his back, on his front—practically_ everywhere.

It's not the first time she's thought about them, or been  _troubled_  by them—and, indeed, in spite of everything he has done, she worries, from time to time, that keeping him caged down here is just insult added to  _visible_  injury—but he always manages to keep her from feeling  _too_ guilty about it with his sharp tongue and unpleasant stares.

 _Isn't it obvious? She has everything you_ don't.

Frowning, she wonders at how he can still be so  _mulish_ towards her in spite of the circumstances, and the recent past, and now the chains on his wrists, too—and at how he can still stare at her so boldly even then, knowing that she could end his life in an instant.

 _Don't worry—I'm still_ grateful _for your_ hospitality _, my Queen._

His voice has taken on a low,  _honeyed_ quality in her memories—the same he had when he said  _Oh, Your Majesty, you're_ blushing—and it makes her gaze harden as she stares at him, an inexplicable  _steeliness_ taking over her.

"Let me see them."

His brow furrows in bemusement.

"See  _what?"_

"The scars."

His eyes go cold at the order.

"Why?"

Her mouth tightens.

" _You_  don't get to ask  _me_ anything, Hans. Now  **show**  them to me."

He stares back at her, silent and stony, before he finally rises from his seat on the plank, draws close to her—only a foot away, again—and then stops, and holds his wrists in front of her.

"Take these off, first."

She glares at him, and is about to dismiss the request; but then, seeing the determination in his eyes, that set, harsh resolve, she acquiesces, and the ice evaporates into thin air.

His shackles gone, she's wary that he might try something like he did last time—but the feeling soon passes when she sees that he's maintaining his distance from her, and somehow, she has faith that he won't grab his new chair and try to smash her over the head with it.

 _I don't like being_ forced _to confess to things that I would otherwise say_ willingly _, Your Majesty._

She recalls him saying something like that, a week ago; but then he strips off his cloak, and his white linen shirt, not a word spoken in protest all the while, and she guesses that, perhaps, she might have tamed him, at least a  _little_ bit.

And even though his torso is bare—and some marks upon it are already visible under dim moonlight—her eyes never leave his.

"Show me the others."

His expression, like hers, doesn't change—even as he unhooks his belt from his waist and pulls down his trousers and undergarments, leaving them, like the others, pooled in a messy pile on the stone floor beneath his feet—but he can't keep from shivering in the cold, now that he's completely exposed to it.

She, too, can't  _help_  it when her gaze finally breaks off from his, and sweeps over that body, every  _inch_ of it, as she walks around him, front to back, the train of her robe trailing after her.

But she pauses when she's behind him, and the light from the window is illuminating those long, pink scars on his back—much longer, and larger, than the ones on his front—and he shudders when her fingers gently run down the length of each one in turn, her touch feather-light on his skin.

 _Come on, Your Majesty—you must have had_ some _reason for bringing me back here._

She circles back to his front, ignoring his  _boiling_  stare, and her eyes flutter over his strong arms, his lean stomach, his chest covered in a light layer of hair—and there, in the centre of it, a mark that looks  _fresher_ than the others.

Fascinated by the discovery, she reaches her hand up to touch it, just as she had the ones on his back—but he grabs it before her fingers touch his skin, and her gaze finally lifts to meet his.

"How did you get that?"

He sneers at the question, and his grip tightens.

"It doesn't matter."

 _Well … so much for_ taming  _him._

She scowls and sends a sudden chill through his hand, then presses her fingers  _painfully_ against that spot, watching, with some  _satisfaction,_ as he groans in discomfort.

Her eyes narrow ominously.

"It matters to  _me."_

She draws back her hand after this pronouncement and walks to the table, gesturing to the chair beside it.

"Now sit, and tell me."

His reluctance is overruled, probably, by his survival instincts; and so he submits to the command, and, still bare as the day he was born, he sits in the chair, wincing a little at the cold as he does.

"There's not much to tell, Your Majesty. It's just—it was the last mark they gave me, before I set sail. Some sort of …  _reminder,_ I guess, of who—no,  **what** I am."

Her eyes flicker briefly with sympathy—but she extinguishes the emotion before he can see it.

"Who gave it to you?"

He answers expressionlessly, his green eyes blank.

"Just one of the overseers at the camp. No one  _important."_

When he doesn't continue after this, her brow rises questioningly.

"That's all?"

His gaze flashes back to greet hers, and it's just as sceptical.

"What—were you expecting  _more_ than that? Some great  _tale,_ perhaps, of 'How the Traitor Prince Got His Scars'?"

He scoffs at the notion, and leans back against the chair uncomfortably.

"No—there's nothing like that, I'm afraid. Sorry to  _disappoint_ you, Queen Elsa."

She frowns at how  _dismissive_ he seems about the whole ordeal—his imprisonment, his wounds both old and new, her  _staring_ at and  _touching_ his body as much as she pleases—mostly because it doesn't  _fit_ with how obstinate he is the rest of the time, and how easily he  _mocks_ her, even then, when she has all the power and he has  _none_.

It occurs to her, as well, how odd it would look if someone saw them now, him sitting in his chair, arms crossed, looking somewhere between cold and disinterested, and her leaning on the edge of the table, observing him as if he were a specimen and not a full-grown, scarred, and very  _naked_  man.

She's glad, then, that she had the sense to send the guards enough of a distance away while she "spoke" with him, since otherwise she's  _certain_ that they would be peeking in, and seeing—no,  _gawping—_ at the proceedings inside of the cell.

 _I don't need them spreading any more_ gossip.

Distracted by her wandering thoughts, she momentarily loses her grip on the table, and stumbles forward—but  _he_ stands and catches her forearms before she can fall over completely, and she breathes in sharply at the feeling of his hands on her again.

She blinks at him in surprise, only to find an  _aggravatingly_ smug look plastered to his features; and though she tries to will her skin to grow colder so that he will let her go and sit in the chair like before, her heart is beating too fast, and too  _hotly,_ for her magic to keep up.

 _Elsa? Are you …_ blushing?

His hands aren't grasping her forearms as savagely as they did her neck the week before, but he's still drawing in too close for comfort, and she can  _feel_ his hot breath on her face, and his eyes, dark with what she realises now is  _desire,_ boring holes into her own.

"I saw you staring at them—my  _scars_ —the other time, too,  _Your Majesty."_

There's a seductive lilt in his tone when he says that— _Your Majesty_ —and it makes her tremble, and her legs part slightly, allowing him to stand between them, his knees lightly brushing against hers.

"Were you feeling  _sorry_ for me, then? Did you …  **pity** the poor,  _maimed_ Prince Hans?"

One of his hands brushes her hair back from her ear to speak against it, his lips tickling her cheek, and the other slides up beneath her nightgown, finding her  _centre,_ and presses against it.

She gasps when his fingers start to  _rub_ her there, and she grabs his shoulders suddenly, chilling them in her shock—but the chill is only enough to make him shudder for a moment, and when it passes, his pressure on her only  _increases_ , and he grasps at her breasts with the other hand,  _roughly._

 _As heir, Elsa was_ preferable,  _of course._

" _No."_

His fingers have slipped into her when she finally answers him, and she bites back a loud moan, her arms unconsciously curling around his neck and her face buried in the crook of it, breathing shakily against the  _blistering_ skin there.

"That's good."

He chuckles against her ear, nipping at the lobe, and he's started to coax her out of the robe—and the gown beneath it—but his  _fingers_ haven't relented all the while, and she's practically  _whimpering_  by the time she's shrugged her gown far enough off one shoulder for him to squeeze her bare chest.

 _I'm_ looking,  _Your Majesty._

But then he stops, and withdraws his hand from her—and as she stares at him, heady with lust and confusion,her cheeks heating at his equally red, but  _smirking_ face, she's sure, with growing fury, that he's just done all of this to  _humiliate_ her.

 _No one was getting anywhere with_ her.

She forcefully grips his hand, still gleaming with her  _essence_ upon it, and her eyes are luminous with desire—and  _threat._

"I didn't say you could  _stop."_

To her surprise, he  _grins,_ then—and it's a grin that's so wide, and so incredibly  _handsome,_ that it makes her swallow—and that same hand is suddenly gripping the waistband of her drawers, pinching the skin beneath it.

"And I never said I was  _going_ to, Your Majesty."

Her hold on him relaxes as he lifts her bottom slightly off the table, sliding the undergarment down until she can kick the rest off herself; and then her gown is being pushed up to her waist, and she  _feels_ the whole length of him  _hard_ against her, and suddenly she understands, and she  _knows,_ what is coming next.

And she  _wants_ it.

She draws him into a kiss as he enters her, and he pushes her down against the table, his body leaning over hers, her legs wrapped around his torso—but he's too rough at first, and too  _fast,_ so she sends a warning chill along his back, and he responds in kind, going slower, becoming  _gentler._

 _How many suitors have you had this year? Seven?_ Eight?

It's not as painful as she thought it would be, from the stories she's heard from handmaidens' gossip and from the books she's read on the subject—in fact, it's  _warm,_ and it  _fills_ her _,_ and she feels, somehow, completely in  _control._

 _Well, you know what everyone's saying, don't you? I mean, you've rejected_ so many  _of them, now …_

He's breathing  _hard_ into her shoulder and his fingers are  _digging_ into the flesh of her bottom, allowing him to go  _deeper,_ and her hands are only pressing him  _further_ into her, roaming his back, his shoulders, his  _arms._

 _I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without_ children _—_

She sighs when he dips his head to kiss her breasts, and takes a nipple into his mouth, biting it teasingly as she pushes his head against her chest, her fingers entangling themselves in his hair.

 _Elsa, do you even_ remember  _what he did? To me? To_ you?

He's going faster now, and she lets him, because it's starting to feel even  _better_ than before—and it's starting to build towards something  _more,_ a swelling,  _steaming_ sensation that she can hardly comprehend.

 _Did you_ pity  _the poor,_ maimed  _Prince Hans?_

His hand is suddenly  _there_ again, touching her in time with his thrusts, and she has to cover her mouth to keep from crying out when that low heat in her stomach is building up,  _up,_ **up**  until she feels as if she's about to burst, her eyes closing with pleasure.

 _Better a commoner than a_ virgin que _—_

And then, he groans—and she quivers, gasping—and for a brief moment, there is nothing but  _silence._

_Silence._

She opens her eyes, and they're wide, and  _bright,_ and she stares, for a moment, at  _him,_ resting atop her, catching his breath, his torso covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Then, she looks up, and a look of awe passes over her features—and her heart  _thumps_ —because covering the entire room, from floor to ceiling, is a delicate, beautiful layer of frost.

And she smiles, because suddenly she understands, and she  _knows,_ that she is—

_Free.  
_

* * *

There are many more visits in the days, and  _weeks,_ that follow—and with each succeeding rendezvous by moonlight, she allows him more and more special privileges.

It starts out with some new clothes—a few more shirts, trousers, a thicker cloak to keep out the cold, a pair of boots that  _isn't_ worn down to the soles—and from there, he requests something softer to sleep upon and things  _other_ than work to keep him occupied, and he is given a worn, straw-filled mat to go atop the stone plank, a hard pillow, and some books from her own collection.

Then, he asks her for more  _difficult_ things: time outside of the cell; tasks to keep him busy that  _aren't_ menial; the chance to go  _outdoors_.

And although at first she cannot allow any of these, he whispers sweet words in her ears, and caresses her breasts, and leaves trails of kisses along her thighs, and she feels  _free_ —and so she finds a way to accommodate his wishes, though it becomes increasingly more troublesome to do so.

 _Your Majesty … you know I wouldn't_ ever  _question your orders normally, but—this is just so …_ strange.

Gerda was shocked, and then terribly worried, when she asked her to find  _something_ for the prisoner to do during the day outside of his cell—something that wouldn't involve him being in contact with too many of the other attendants, of course, lest they  _talk_ —but the older woman had eventually relented, seeing the determination in her queen's eyes,  _knowing_  she could not refuse the order.

It is in this way that the traitor finally leaves his cell, if only for a few hours during the day, and becomes the  _phantom_  of the kitchens, the gardens, the unused rooms of the castle; and this likewise gives her the chance to meet him in places  _other_ than the prison for their trysts, which only  _increase_  in number once he is finally given this little taste of independence.

(They particularly enjoy liaising in a guestroom on the second floor in the East Wing, where she remembers, vaguely, that the Duke of Weselton was meant to stay had his visit been as long as intended in Arendelle—and that fact had made the former prince grin even  _wider_  than usual when he'd learned it, and he always takes her in an  _especially_ rough way there.)

Of course, keeping this quiet is no easy task—and in fact, he's nearly been found out on several occasions, mostly when he wanders too far out of his prescribed areas of the castle—but she is satisfied in knowing that at least  _Anna_ still thinks that he's in his cell, and she is perversely  _grateful_ for the obliviousness of (most of) her staff and Council, who haven't raised a single bell in alarm at the fate of the traitor Prince.

She thinks it odd, in some way, that he's seemingly been so easily  _forgotten;_ but then, she looks at the stacks and stacks of papers to be read and signed on her desk, and remembers all of her upcoming appointments and meetings, and suddenly, Kai's little phrase— _life goes on_ —is as relevant as ever, and she is able to dismiss her concerns.

Yet she can't help but wonder, when she sees him, day or night, in empty rooms or hallways or  _prison cells,_ if he doesn't  _resent_ it somehow—if he actually  _despises_ living here just as much as he did the camp before it—because he never fails to ask, after every encounter,  _So when's my trial, Your Majesty?,_ and she never fails to answer—

_Next week._

But he knows as well as she does that no trial awaits him next week, or the week after, or the week after  _that_ , because he can see that he's nothing more than a  _ghost,_ now— _her_ ghost—and every time they meet, there is no talk of their pasts, or their presents, or their  _futures,_ because there is only  _now,_ and frankly, she doesn't  _care_ what came before this, since that would mean the end of her fantasy, of her  _freedom._

And though there is a well of guilt building in her at this knowledge—at the fact that she is  _selfishly_ keeping him for herself—she doesn't want it to end.

_I_ **need** _this._

She doesn't know when she started feeling this way—like she  _needed_ these stolen moments with him in every hidden corner of the castle—but the feeling is only growing with time, with every whispered comment she overhears about her  _frigidness,_ and with every cutting remark that a now  _very_ pregnant Anna makes when she's in a foul mood (and that, unfortunately, is quite often these days).

She  _needs_ it, she realises, because it's the only time she can escape the shroud that hangs over her—the rage, the self-loathing, the  _fear_ —and it's the first time she's felt this way since she took off during her coronation and built a palace of ice, and  _abandoned_ her people to an icy doom, and nearly  _killed_ her only living family member.

And so she returns to him, time and time again, and she ignores the warnings issued by her rational mind—warnings that grow  _fainter_  with each passing day—because the heart knows what it wants, what it  _needs,_ and she has gone too far down this road, she thinks, to turn back now, when her body  _yearns_ for his, and her powers, for once,are kept in check by the promise of seeing him, of touching him, of being  _one_ with him.

_I need_ **him.  
**

* * *

It's an unseasonably warm February day when Anna's baby boy is born—and just as well _,_ she thinks with a smile, since she can't imagine her little sister giving birth on a day that's anything less than  _perfect._

Though they've had their differences in recent months, she is greeted warmly by the new mother when she arrives at her bedside, and while a pulse of anxiety runs through her when Anna hands her the newborn, she calms herself, thinking of light, airy  _frost,_ and she holds the boy gently in her arms as his parents look on approvingly.

She stays in the room with them for a while, talking quietly, humming along with her sister when she sings a lullaby from their childhoods; and she realises, with some surprise, that it's been  _so long_ since she was able to relax like this, and just feel  _content._

Soon, however, she is called back to her duties, and though the mood around the castle is improved with the delivery of the princess's first child, and she herselfis feeling far cheerier than usual … when she enters the council room, and sits in her place at the head of the table, and looks out onto  _their_ faces, she is struck by a cold,  _mean_ memory.

 _I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without_ children _—_

And there, sitting a few chairs down on her left, is the very same Lady Cecilie who uttered those words, and a pacific, innocent smile is on her lips as she speaks.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty! It truly is a happy day for us all."

"Yes, what a  _marvellous_ occasion! It's a relief to hear that there were no complications, and the boy is healthy."

"We truly are so  _thrilled_ to hear the news, Queen Elsa—please, pass on our well wishes to the Princess and Sir Bjorgman."

Her smile is tight,  _thin,_ even, though she acts as civilly as possible.

"Of course. They'll be happy to receive them—thank you."

The councillors nod gratefully, and then talk amongst themselves for a while, exchanging exclamations of excitement for the young princess, her baby's safe delivery, and all the other  _trite_ niceties that can be said about such an event.

She wonders, then, while observing them, and absently listening to them, if there's anything she could do as queen that would be so  _wonderful,_ so  _impressive_ as producing an heir to the throne; and seeing how animatedly they converse, and knowing how  _cruelly_ they speak of her behind her back—the "Virgin Queen of Arendelle"—she somehow doubts that there is.

It makes her feel ill, and though she wants nothing more than to leave the room again so she doesn't have to see their  _deceitful_ faces, she forces herself to stay, and merely requests a glass of water to quell her unease.

 _You're the Queen,_   _after all—virgin or_ not.

Were she in better spirits, she supposes that she would look  _smugly_ at them for bestowing such a title upon her, as it now represents little more than a twisted sort of irony—especially when she thinks on how the sheets in the upstairs guestroom are likely still mussed from their last  _meeting_ three days before—but in that moment, her head aching, her eyes closed, she can't bother to claim even  _this_  victory over them, small as it is.

She strangely  _misses_ him then, though she doesn't want to, and she's not even sure how she can miss someone like  _him—_ someone who is, in fact, little more than a  _stranger_ to her, for all she knows about who he is and  _why_ he did the things he did—but she does nonetheless, and the feeling is  _painful,_ and deep, and strikes her at her very core.

But she can't leave then—no, not  _yet_ —and with a silent sigh, her eyes open, and she resumes her role as—

_Your Majesty.  
_

* * *

When the meeting is finally adjourned some hours later, she can't leave to find him fast enough, dismissing her guards because, as she always tells them, she needs some time to "think,"  _alone_.

She's not sure where he's been sent to work today—the gardens, the kitchens, the empty halls—but she also doesn't want to ask Gerda, because the last time she did, the woman informed her, in an unmistakably  _stern_ tone, that he was washing dishes in the kitchen, and her  _look_ was enough to indicate that she had some inkling of what was going on.

 _And there's no point in_ confirming  _it._

Normally, she might have made a game out of trying to find him, and sometimes he would sneak up on her and kiss her until she had to cover her mouth to keep her giggles from being heard; but now, when she is tired, and uneasy, and still feeling the  _pressure_ of all those eyes on her, judging her, silently asking her  _so when are you going to have some children of your own, Your Majesty?,_ she has no patience for such trivialities.

 _I just want to_ see  _him._

She walks in a melancholy way down the empty hallway leading to the guestroom—only occasionally checking behind her for any signs of guards nearby—and when she reaches the door of it, she pauses, and slumps forward against it, her head resting wearily on the hard wood.

_Do you wanna build a snowman?_

She can hear the singsong voice of a five-year-old, the cautious one of a ten-year-old, and then the  _disappointed_ one of a fifteen-year-old Anna through the barrier, and she remembers, unwillingly, the years of isolation—the years of  _fear—_ and how close she had come to never drawing herself out of that dark hole she'd unwittingly dug.

 _No one was getting anywhere with_ her.

It's not clear to her, then, how far she's  _actually_ come since that time; after all, isn't she still  _hiding,_ in some way, from everyone? Hiding behind the title,  _"Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elsa of Arendelle"?_  She wonders if that's any better than before—and if now, she doesn't simply have  _other_ secrets,  **dark** secrets, that are just as  _toxic_ as the others were.

She eyes her gloves at this thought, and grimaces, her hands tightening into fists.

_Don't be the monster they fear you are!_

It's an odd thing to recall then, but she does, and her blue eyes widen slightly.

 _He …_ he  _said that, didn't he?_

She remembers it all clearly—the ice palace, the guards, the arrows, her  _rage_ —but clearest of all is his pleading tone, the  _understanding_ in his green eyes as he wills her, with his words alone, to  _stop._

 _Your sister is dead … because of_ you!

It doesn't make any sense, she thinks, no, not at  _all_ —and her confusion  _crushes_ her in that moment, because she's been trying not to think about it, or  _feel_ it, in all these months with him, through all his kisses, and bites, and caresses, and  _words._

**"** _**Your Majesty."** _

She shudders visibly when she hears his voice in her ear, smooth and low and  _cruel,_ but she can't lift her head from the door, since she's afraid that if she sees him then, after he's already filled her thoughts, that she'll simply  _feel_ too much, and she won't be able to stop herself from freezing the world whole again.

"Oh—what's wrong, Queen Elsa? Has it been a  _long_ day?"

She feels him press up against her from behind, and his hands come up to languorously stroke her breasts over her dress, making her shake in  _pain,_  and she's too caught up in it—in  _everything—_ to seethe like she should at him, to say  _not outside, Hans, it's not_ safe  _here_.

"I can't say I blame you—given the news about the  _baby._ You must be  _exhausted,_ now, hmm?"

It's an unspoken rule, since her early visits, that he's not allowed to mention Anna whenever they meet—let alone say her  _name_ —and though he doesn't then, she can  _hear_ it on his lips, in his voice, in the  _air_ around them.

But she doesn't say a word, because his hand is suddenly reaching up her skirt, under her silk drawers, and his fingers are touching her  _there,_ and she can't speak.

"My poor, tired,  _lonely_ little queen … no one  _understands_ you, do they?"

His words are  _poison,_ she thinks, her hands gripping the door for support as his fingers plunge deeper,  _deeper_ into her, and she can't  _bear_ the chuckle that echoes against her ear, the teeth that graze the lobe, the  _tongue_ that darts along the back of it.

"Well, don't worry, Your Majesty— _I_ understand, even if they  _never_ will."

She knows he's sneering at her then, even if she can't see it— _won't_ see it—and it fills her with an indescribable  _shame_ that he could say and do such things to her without so much as a  _word_ of protest in return, her body  _slavishly_ responding to his touches, long and bare and  _powerful_ , under the setting sun.

 _I just don't_ understand _you._

She chokes on a moan as she comes, muffling the sound with her wrist, and soon after he removes his hand from her, her skirts fall back down around her legs, which are  _buckling_  under her.

He catches her just before she collapses to the ground, and draws her up again from behind, never facing her directly; and she's relieved, for some  _inexplicable_ reason, that he has spared her the humiliation of seeing the undoubtedly self-satisfied expression he's wearing then, as he looks down on the trembling,  _piteous_ queen that has caged him.

"I'd better be on my way—they'll be  _expecting_ me, after all."

She's still staring at the door, and at her feet, and  _anywhere_ except in his direction when he speaks again, though she can hear, faintly, the sound of him  _cleaning_ his fingers with his tongue, and drawling a  _hmm_ once he's finished.

"Until next time,  _Your Majesty."  
_

* * *

But there's no "next time"—not for a couple weeks, at least, since she's still too  _ashamed_  to see him again—and in the meantime she does anything she can to rid her mind of even the  _thought_ of him, whether it be burying herself in work, or reading her favourite books, or visiting Anna and Kristoff and the baby.

Even this latter means of distraction, however, eventually becomes another  _burden_ on her—an arrow of sorrow and dread and  _regret_ that wounds her with each succeeding visit—and so, as the days draw on, she goes to Anna's side less and less, making excuses, telling  _lies,_ because that's what she does  _best._

 _My poor, tired,_ lonely _little queen … no one_ understands _you, do they?_

There's something else, though, that's playing on her conscience, and keeping her from going to him—something she should tell him,  _needs_ to tell him—but she can't, and  _won't,_ because if she says it out loud, it will make it  _real,_ and she's been denying reality far too long, by this point, to cope with the consequences of acknowledging its existence.

 _Well, don't worry, Your Majesty—_ I _understand, even if they_ never _will._

Nonetheless, it's impossible to hide from it, to ignore it, to  _will_ it away, since she's always been one to dwell on things; and so it comes to pass that she is at dinner with Anna when his  _cooing_ enters her mind again, and she frosts over the water in her glass with a glower.

It doesn't help that her younger sister has been staring at her,  _intensely,_ ever since they first sat down twenty minutes ago—and this makes her anxious.

"You're not drinking your wine, Elsa."

Her eyes flicker briefly over to the still-full glass beside her plate, and suddenly, the  _smell_ of it hits her—and she has to push down the nausea that rises in her throat, quickly looking away from it and toward her half-eaten food.

"I'm—I'm not in the mood for it, I suppose."

Anna's eyes narrow at her dubiously, and her lips purse.

"You  _always_ have wine at dinner."

The more Anna mentions it, the stronger the  _stench_ of the alcohol becomes, and she's trying,  _desperately,_ to block it out, to not  _show_ how unwell she feels.

"Honestly, I—I just don't want any tonight."

"You're  **lying**."

A dull silence hangs around the table after this declaration; then, she gazes at her sister uncomprehendingly.

"What?"

Anna's wearing a horrible,  _tempestuous_ expression at the question, at the  _bewilderment_ in the queen's eyes.

"I heard from one of the girls—that they saw Hans  _wandering_ around the East Wing a couple weeks ago."

She stiffens in shock, but—just like before—she says  _nothing._

"Well, Elsa? Is it true?"

Her mouth opens to speak; then, she shuts it again, her brow creasing helplessly.

"It  _is,_ isn't it? I knew, I just  _knew_ that there was something weird going on since you stopped visiting me and the baby, but …  _this?"_

Her ire is palpable, but the queen is still silent, because she knows that even if she tells Anna that the prisoner hasn't been allowed out of his cell since her last  _engagement_ with him, her sister won't listen, and it will probably only make her face get  _redder_ than it already is.

"It was  _one_ thing to bring him back here, and put him in the prison, where he  _belongs_  … but then you just  _kept_ him there, and there was no trial—and I didn't say anything, all this time, because I thought you were  _handling_ it, Elsa, I thought you  _knew_ what you were doing—but now I can see how  _wrong_ I was about you."

Each word drives the stake of Anna's disappointment, her  _fury,_ further and further into the queen's heart … and though she is still silent, somewhere, deep within her, a sensation of protest begins to rise, and it  _curdles_ her blood in her veins—but she stamps it down, because she has to,  _for Anna's sake._

"I guess he told you some  _sob story_ about his family, or his childhood, and his twelve  _nasty_ older brothers; and so you took  _pity_  on him, and let him out of his cell, because you're just too  _kind-hearted_ to see what he really is—is that it,  _Elsa?"_

She presses her lips in a firm line, and it's becoming harder and  _harder_ to keep it down, to silence her anxiety, her  _resentment,_ but she has to, she has to, she  _has to—_

"You don't get it, do you? That he's a  _monster,_ and that he can't  _change_ like you did—although, to be honest, after  _this,_ I'm not really sure if you've changed at  _al—"_

**"** _**Enough!"** _

Her fork clatters noisily against the plate as she drops it, her hands in tight, white fists, and her icy eyes  _enflamed._

"Say what you will about me, or my choices—how I've  _lost it,_ how I don't  _get it,_  how I'm too  _simple_ to see the 'truth' about him, as you  _put_  it—but don't pretend as if you  **understand**  me, as if you've  _ever_ understood me, or act so  _surprised_ about it all when you don't even know who _—_ or  _what_ —I am."

Anna looks taken aback, at first; then, her eyes darken, and she glares.

"And  _what_ are you, Elsa?"

Her lip twitches, and she swallows,  _thickly,_ thinking—

_preferable_

But she says—

"The  _Queen."  
_

* * *

She's not fully aware of how, or  _when,_  she got to his cell later that night—it could have been right after her argument with Anna, or several  _hours_ later, but she's lost track of time, of space, of  _everything—_

Except for his  _eyes,_ staring back at her in the darkness,  _glowing._

He looks as though he wants to snap at her, to  _berate_ her for keeping him confined to his cell for the last two weeks—but then, when he sees her breathing shakily, her skin white as a sheet, and her gaze, desperate and lonely and  _sad,_ his expression shifts, and he softly draws her into his embrace, allowing her to shiver against him as they sit on his straw mattress.

"What's wrong, Your Majesty?"

She exhales tremulously at the question, gripping the lapels of his shirt, and buries her face in his warm chest.

"Don't call me that, please—not  _now."_

He's stroking her hair in an unusually  _soothing_ way, and as he continues, he takes the pins out of it, and undoes the braid, and lets the white locks  _free_ to fall across her shoulders and back.

"Then what should I call you?"

There's a hint of  _amusement_ in his voice that doesn't escape her, but she chooses to overlook it, taking what little comfort there is to be drawn from his person.

"Just … just  _Elsa,_ today. Just for today."

His chest rumbles with a suppressed chuckle, and he runs a hand through her long hair before unclasping the cloak around her shoulders, giving him access to her bare shoulders.

"Very well— _Elsa."_

She suddenly wishes she hadn't allowed him to use it—her  _first name_ —because the way he does, in that mischievous,  _sultry_ tone, sends an awful  _chill_ down her spine … though, on second thought, that could have just been the result of his hand sweeping across her skin, followed by his lips, and  _teeth,_ which  _graze_  the light freckles dotting her neckline.

It feels  _good,_  she thinks, his mouth trailing along her collar, up her neck, to her jaw; and while one of his hands is undoing the lacing on the back of her dress, the other is drawing her legs up onto his lap, pushing her gown up her legs, and  _sliding_  along the pale skin of her thighs.

 _I thought you were_ handling _it, Elsa, I thought you_ knew _what you were doing—but now I can see how_ wrong _I was about you._

And just like that, the bile rises in her throat again, and she pushes away from him a little—but he merely draws her back against him, her front  _flush_ against his cloaked chest, and she breathes in sharply at their closeness.

"Something  _wrong,_ Elsa?"

He loosens the back of the dress enough to begin to slip it off her, but when he starts to, she resists, clutching at him  _tightly_.

"Don't—please,  _don't,_ Hans."

He clucks at the plea, and tilts her chin up to look at him; and though her eyes are closed, a few tears finally escape them, slowly dribbling down her cheeks, and he gently,  _patiently_ wipes them away.

"There, there, now, my Queen—won't you tell me what the  _matter_  is?"

She hears him,  _feels_ his breath against her ear—but she doesn't answer, and shakes her head, and the tears continue to fall from her closed eyes.

"Oh, Elsa _._ Always keeping everything  _inside,_ aren't you?"

He lays her back against the mattress, and though it's hard, it's still fairly padded on account of all the blankets, and the pillow, and all the other  _luxuries_ she's allowed him in so many months.

…  _and so you took_ pity _on him, and let him out of his cell, because you're just too_ kind-hearted _to see what he really is._

He doesn't try to take off her gown again, though she wouldn't struggle against him anymore if he  _did_ try to; of course, that doesn't stop his hands from  _roaming_ her figure through the fabric, and  _under_  it, and his lips from kissing away the tears that are trickling onto the bed below, though she feels him  _smile_  against her skin as he does.

"Did you quarrel with your  _sister,_ perhaps?"

Her breath catches in her throat when she hears his belt unbuckling, and feels him, just the  _tip_ of him, brush against her entrance—and she wonders, in shock, when he had succeeded in removing her undergarments—but before she can even  _begin_ to understand what he's doing, or  _how,_ he's  _penetrating_ her, and her eyes cloud over, and she feels as if she's losing her  _mind._

 _You don't get it, do you? That he's a_ monster, _and that he can't_ change _like you did._

"Is that why you came tonight, Elsa? Because the princess  _hurt your feelings?"_

He's driving into her  _slowly,_ pushing  _deeply,_ and it's  **maddening** how easy it is for him, how he's  _taking his time,_ and she's trembling beneath him like a leaf, unable to speak, or think, or  _breathe_.

"Perhaps you thought I could  _heal_ your wounds? Speak  _sweet words_ into your ear—make you  _forget?"_

…  _to be honest, after_ this, _I'm not sure if you've changed at_ all.

He's going faster now, and  _harder,_ and his hands are firmly grasping her breasts— _too_ firmly—and they feel so  _sore,_ and tender, that she wants to  _scream._

"But how could I, Elsa? After all, I'm just a  _prisoner—_ your loyal, faithful  _pet_ —and how can such a  **thing** even  _dare_  to think that it could  _heal_ the Queen?"

 _It was the last mark they gave me, before I set sail. Some sort of …_ reminder, _I guess, of who—no,_ what  _I am._

He's hot, so  _hot_ inside of her, and his hands have moved from her breasts to her sides, which he grips,  _painfully—_ but even with his heat, and his sweltering,  _bitter_ eyes on hers, her skin is getting colder, and her body is  _numbing_ under his.

"You must know, of course, that it  _can't_ —that it can't  _help_ you, or  _heal_ you, or  **love** you—because it's only a  _thing,_ not a man, and a  _thing_ isn't capable of feeling  _anything at_   _all."_

She breathes, finally—and when she does, the air turns  _frigid,_ and his terrible smile leaves his lips.

 _And_ what  _are you, Elsa?_

With a strength she rarely uses, and hardly  _knew_ she still possessed, she shoves him off, and he falls  _hard_ on his back against the cold, stone floor next to the bed—and he nearly  _barks_ in surprise when she presses down on top of him, straddling his waist, but he's not  _inside_ of her anymore, no, he's not anywhere  _near_ being  **that** , because her bare hands are around his neck, cutting off his  _viperous_ tongue,  _suffocating_ the life out of him.

"You can't see anything beyond your own,  _pathetic_ self-loathing, can you,  _Hans?"_

She's glowering down at him with the full force of a  _blizzard_ behind her, the snow swirling around her small, white frame, her hair whipping wildly in the wind she's created—but she's not  _smiling_ like he was.

"You can't see it, and you can't even  _begin_ to understand it—what you've  _done."_

With what little sense is left in those green eyes—eyes that are growing dimmer,  _colder,_ as her ice creeps into him—he stares back at her in confusion, and the look so  _enrages_ her that her grip  _tightens,_ and she thinks, in that moment, that she's never  _hated_  anyone so much in her entire life as she does  _him_.

 _My poor, tired,_ lonely _little queen._

He starts  _thrashing_ under her when he sees, and  _realises,_ that she's not letting go—that, in fact, she's not going to let go until he's limp, and lifeless, and  _frozen_ —but his struggling only makes her more incensed, and more  _desperate_ than before, and her tears are falling as drops of hail, echoing dully against the stone beneath them.

"Don't you  _see,_  Hans?"

_I'm—_

"Don't you  _understand?"_

— _the_ Queen,  _but really, I'm just—_

"I haven't  **bled** in  _two months."_

_Preferable._

The snow hangs still in the air, and the only sound that fills the room is her heavy,  _choking_ sobs.

Soon, however, it's joined by others— _wheezing,_ coughing,  _hacking_ —because her hands have left his throat, and she's dragged herself off of him, one hand pressed flat against the floor—

—and the other clutching her stomach.

 _I'm not_ kind-hearted,  _Anna._

She turns her head towards him,  _slowly,_ but there are no tears left to shed, and her eyes are empty.

 _I never took_ pity  _on him._

And he's staring back at her with the same, hollow gaze he had when he arrived, the imprints of her hands  _seared_ into his skin, branding him.

 _I don't even_ love  _him._


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a couple of prompts: "Portrait" and "A queen with no heir."

**Epilogue**

At night, she dreams of a boy with red hair.

He's no more than five or six years old - the same age Anna was when she struck her - though there's almost nothing else about him that she recognises.

He has a long, heart-shaped face, freckled cheeks, and thin, pink lips, all of which seem to belong to someone else—except for one thing.

_Blue eyes._

It's as if she's staring at her own reflection, and her heart seizes when he comes closer, bends down, and touches the edges of her ice that runs in thin, long lines towards him.

_Don't,_ she wants to tell the boy, but finds she can't speak nor move from her spot; instead, she watches in horror as the ice crawls along his curious fingers, up his fine robes ... to his heart.

Her breath is short, gasping.

_Stop._

(And it stops.)

The boy's expression is melancholic as he stares at her, or _through_ her - she can't tell - and he places one of his small, ice-laced hands to that untouched heart.

_It's all right,_ he says. _It can't hurt me._

Tears sting at the edges of her eyes, and her vision blurs.

_It can hurt you,_ she wants to reply, her throat aching with desperation. _It can_ always _hurt you._

The boy cocks his head gently to the side, red bangs falling across familiar eyes.

_It can't hurt me,_ he repeats, and suddenly he sounds and _looks_ too much like Anna for her to bear. _I'm special—I'm_ different.

_You're not_ , she tries to mouth to him, though her lips are sealed. _You can hurt, you can bleed—you can_ die _like everyone else._

He smiles—and there, finally, in that expression, she sees, and she _knows_ whom he reminds her of, and a wave of revulsion washes over her.

_It can't hurt me,_ he says again, _because I'm a monster._

He presses his icy hands into his chest for effect; she watches in horror as the ice enters his body and makes it _pulse_ with its aura, his eyes glowing with a hideous light, the magic seeming to consume him—

And then it is gone.

His little hands are at his sides again as before, his face unsmiling, his eyes blue like hers.

She finds herself looking, no, _searching_ for that shock of white hair she's come to expect with these incidents, though there's not a trace of it anywhere on him.

It should make her sigh with relief, she thinks, or perhaps weep with joy; instead, she is seized with a sudden terror that makes her feel ill.

_You see?_ he says. _I told you it would be all right, Mama._

* * *

Her eyes open softly.

She rests a hand atop her stomach, hardly noticing it's level with her nose, and breathes.

_Just a dream,_ she thinks. _Nothing more._

There is a soft _beat_ beneath that hand, but her gaze doesn't waver from the painted ceiling above.

_Nothing more._

She closes her eyes, her brow relaxing, her fingertips drifting away towards her side again.

(And she dreams of a boy with red hair.)


End file.
